


The Darkest of All Lies

by rubychan05



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Break Up, Drug Addiction, Literature, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubychan05/pseuds/rubychan05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he meets Sherlock, his mind is afire with images of beaches at sunset, waves crashing down upon the sand and sweeping away everything he thought he knew. In his head, Lestrade is comparing Sherlock to a summer’s day, to a red, red rose, to a moonbeam’s kiss bestowed upon the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkest of All Lies

Lestrade, despite appearances, considers himself to be fairly well read. He knows the guys just see him as the bloke who follows orders, that Sally thinks he spends his evenings slumped on the couch with a beer in his hand and football on the television.

But Lestrade knows his way around books without pictures. He’s read Shelley and Byron, Dickinson and Plath, can quote most of Marlowe verbatim. He proposed to his wife by reciting one of Shakespeare’s sonnets to her, and whilst most of it went over her head the sentiment was very much appreciated. When she left him, he wallowed in Tennyson and Brontë, losing himself in delicate combinations of words that soothed the ache in his chest far better than any alcohol would.

The first time he meets Sherlock, his mind is afire with images of beaches at sunset, waves crashing down upon the sand and sweeping away everything he thought he knew. In his head, Lestrade is comparing Sherlock to a summer’s day, to a red, red rose, to a moonbeam’s kiss bestowed upon the sea.

What actually comes out of his mouth is something more akin to a gurgle, a hapless mangling of consonants that has the other man’s lips quirking in amusement even as Lestrade himself dies of embarrassment. What follows is a painfully stilted argument over whether Sherlock should be allowed to visit Lestrade’s latest crime scene - apparently Lestrade shouldn’t be worrying about his mishandling of the English language, because Sherlock can’t even understand ‘no’ – which only ends when Sherlock suddenly cuts Lestrade’s tirade off with an invitation to dinner.

Lestrade flounders for a moment, partly because his head is still stuck in the debate, partly because he’s unsure of the correct procedure when being asked on a date by a man who just said you have the IQ of an amoeba or, on a good day, a particularly idiotic slug. Sherlock bites his lip nervously, unable to meet Lestrade’s shocked gaze, and the inspector finds himself agreeing out of sheer sympathy.

Later, lying in bed with Sherlock and listening to the other man debating the finer points of criminal psychology, Lestrade realises he’s been played. The unsure amateur asking for a date is no more real than the struggling artist who persuaded the waiter to halve their bill. Sherlock has just bought Lestrade’s complicity with sex and a delightful dinner conversation tailored to the inspector’s ego. And god help him, Lestrade feels more amused than used.

It’s not until the morning, when Lestrade is pouring Sherlock tea, that he manages to catch the would-be detective off guard. The other man wanders into the living room and starts half-heartedly perusing Lestrade’s bookcase, trailing fingers growing still as Sherlock recognises the names on the books’ spines.

“You’ve read Poe’s poetry?” He demands, eyes glittering at Lestrade’s wary nod. What follows is an enthusiastic bout of morning sex that leaves the tea cold and Lestrade late for work, though he finds himself unable to mind. The Sherlock pretending to be interested in him and the Sherlock actually interested in him are two very different creatures, and Lestrade doesn’t regret getting to know the second one.

They continue on like that, for a while, randomly crashing together in a way that gradually begins to resemble a relationship. Sherlock listens to Lestrade read poetry whilst reading stolen case notes, head nodding in appreciation even as he contemplates the difference between poison and asphyxiation. He never shows any sign of affection, but somehow his mere presence is enough to calm Lestrade after a hard day’s work. And Lestrade appears to be one of the few human beings who Sherlock can tolerate. Unusual as the relationship is, it works for them.

Except that Sherlock starts coming home with glassy eyes and marks on his arm, giggling at nothing and resisting every attempt Lestrade makes at getting him help. The day Lestrade realises things have gone too far and ends it, Sherlock just shrugs and flounces off. He doesn’t come back.

The next time Lestrade sees Sherlock, he’s fresh from rehab and far too skinny, dark circles under his eyes as he detachedly requests access to Lestrade’s newest corpse. Lestrade watches him regretfully, the glorious imagery he’d associated with the other man crumbling to dust in the corrosive light of day.

He sees Sherlock regularly after that, though never more than professionally. And though he never pushes for anything more again, sometimes he’ll think of unspoilt beaches and wonder.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Tennyson: 'A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies'.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr under [rubychan05](http://rubychan05.tumblr.com/).


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